


Of Milk and Paper Angels

by Amythe3lder



Series: Irregular Pieces [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Multi, Polyamory, background Johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5408168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amythe3lder/pseuds/Amythe3lder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He found himself once more caught between cheering on Molly’s need to live honestly and sympathising with Mycroft’s innate compulsion to reveal nothing of his humanity to the harsh blaze of criticism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Milk and Paper Angels

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Wetislandinthenorthatlantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic/pseuds/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic) in the [12_days_of_mollcroft_2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/12_days_of_mollcroft_2015) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  Day 8 - 8 Maids a-Milking
> 
> There are angels in your angles  
> There's a low moon caught in your tangles  
> "Of Angels and Angles"-The Decemberists

After a pause to consider, Mycroft said, “So essentially, you're dressing the usual charitable contributions in festive paper.” He was barely inside, still wearing too much of his job for his expressions to be readable, and probably conscious of the technically public venue.

Greg wasn't sure if Molly’s frown was directed at Mycroft’s disdainful comment or at the struggle she was having, trying to wrestle a soft package of socks into submission. She chewed her lip and placed the tape just so, but now a wrinkle had appeared on the other side of the misshapen gift. “ _We_  are, yes. I thought you wanted to help?” she replied, distracted. Greg had to shake his head at that. What Mycroft had wanted, he suspected, was more time with them before the trip to visit his parents next week. He saw Molly sneak a glance across and naturally receive no clues from Mycroft as to the direction of his thoughts. It was somewhat validating to see her as stymied by their partner as he sometimes was. For all the years of piecemeal history he had with Mycroft, the two introverts seemed to share an intuitive understanding. “I mean, if you’ve reconsidered,” she trailed off, “it’s fine.”

They were a tight fit in the small office at the shelter. It had been cozy even before Mycroft’s arrival and it hadn’t bothered either of them. As their relationship was still an official secret, the proximity gave them license to do a fair bit of touching that could be written off as accidental if anyone pulled the door open. Greg took advantage of that very thing. He dropped a hand to Myc’s shoulder in greeting as he squeezed past to get to the storeroom for more items to wrap. Mycroft tightened a tiny bit more.  _Too recently off the clock_.

Greg sighed and turned his attention to the supply of donations. It was a pretty poor showing. Times were hard all around, though not quite as bad as some this building had seen. The shelter was post-war ration-book austerity in chrome and pale green paint and cracked plaster over brick. Molly and the other volunteers were doing everything they could to liven the place up, but Greg knew the value of visual input, and the whole facility muttered  _institutional drudgery_  under its breath.

Mycroft cleared his throat, and Molly explained, “These are people that need cheering. I know it’s hardly anything, but it’ll boost morale.” She looked back down at her mess, now more tape than paper. “That was the idea, anyway.” She was clearly already feeling low about being unable to help as much as she felt she ought to.

“A moment,” was all Mycroft said before he stepped back out into the hall.

Greg offered Molly a shrug in silent commiseration. Who could tell with Mycroft?

After a few minutes--during which they worked to sort out the minor sock-wrapping disaster--their third returned, looking a few degrees less chilly. He was still awkward in the cramped space, but his face was less guarded. Once he followed Molly’s suggestion and sat down at her side behind the desk, he began to look like he belonged where he was.

They worked quietly together, sparing words for gestures, responding to tiny cues he might have missed, and several times Greg caught himself just watching them instead of sketching winter scenes for the walls. Mycroft revealed himself to be a dab hand at turning up a tidy package, and Molly had a knack for curling ribbons. Once everything was wrapped, Mycroft studiously folded origami stars out of the scrap wrapping paper. Molly sat with one arm around his back and watched as if mesmerised until he had a neat pile.

The peace couldn’t last. Mycroft was just finishing his first self-conscious attempt at a paper angel--“Haven’t done one of these in  _eons_ ,” he’d said--when they heard the rumpus of someone thumping on the back door and being let in, and there was John’s shouty voice as one of them dropped something. The pair across the desk froze, then Mycroft sprang away and up like his chair had been on fire, completely missing the flash of hurt on Molly’s face before it faded to disappointment and was then swallowed down entirely. She’d replaced her injured feelings with the tight half-smile that was her version of a blank face before Myc snuck a glance back at her. Greg routinely wanted nothing more than to knock their heads together: slowly, gently, and lips-first.

Greg stepped out into the corridor to see his friend doing an awkward sort of limping shuffle dance of pain. “Ow,  _ow_ , damn it Sherlock, I liked that toe!” he hissed. Behind them, Bill Wiggins plodded in with more. Cassie shut the door against the frostbitten air and shook her head slowly as she stooped to retrieve whatever had escaped the torn bag and injured John.

“So did I, but you do have more besides.” Sherlock paused and let a little concern show through. “Is it okay?” He had one arm laden down with what appeared to be far too many grocery bags, and the other protectively clutched around Elanor, who was tucked into on the detective's ubiquitous coat.

John pursed his mouth a fraction, but ultimately nodded so his fiancé could jump back into his preferred mode of pretending he wasn’t all that worried. That Sherlock would slow down and check up spoke volumes about the state of the couple’s relationship. Greg was quietly proud.

They all made their way to the large kitchen to unpack the load, where it became apparent that only the Holmes brothers knew what was going on, but as usual, they weren’t on the same page. They were scarcely even reading the same book.

“What’s- oh. Oh no.” Mycroft’s eyes, widened in dawning horror, were soon hidden behind the hand he pressed to his forehead.

Sherlock spun to face him, “You said ‘get milk.’”

“No.”

“You said ‘all kinds.’”

“I meant-”

“You said ‘enough milk to make Margaret Thatcher blush.’”

Across from him, Greg saw John break into a cheeky grin. Those colourful instructions had been carried out. There was dairy, soy, almond, coconut, flavoured, condensed, and dry. Their quest had even yielded buttermilk, cream of varying strengths, and a carton of eggnog. There were other foodstuffs in the mix, but it was clear that Sherlock had fixated on one item and worn it out.

Cassie blinked. “It’s hardly the weirdest donation we’ve had. Remember the three crates of alligator skin boots a handful of years back? All size ten and pink?” she asked, and Molly snorted. Greg smelled a story there and had to fight off the urge to investigate stolen shoe shipments for curiosity's sake.

Myc recovered--possibly shocked back into action with the mental image of garish footwear--and did what he did best: he delegated. Now balancing his niece in the crook of one long arm, he demonstrated for her the proper methods for politely bossing folks around. Elanor took to it immediately. Milk was a topic she certainly had prior knowledge of.

Under his direction, the six other adults sorted everything by shelf life and expiration date. Once their task was completed, Molly's next move was to pour herself some eggnog and disappear back to the office. Greg watched Mycroft note her departure, and willed him to follow. It worked.

Greg had a second to worry that they couldn’t all slip away like this and not arouse suspicions.  _If this were an investigation_ , he thought,  _what would I see_? Then he realised that people were far less likely to catch on with three of them than if it were only two lovers slipping off for a chat or a snog in the corner. Besides, from the knowing way the two volunteers had observed their brief interactions, Greg was fairly sure they weren’t fooled anyway. He found himself once more caught between cheering on Molly’s need to live honestly and sympathising with Mycroft’s innate compulsion to reveal nothing of his humanity to the harsh blaze of criticism. 

He pulled up short behind where Mycroft stood, asking to be let in.

Molly swung the door open with an amused huff. “It’s not locked,” she said and ushered them inside.

“I don’t want to go where I’m not wanted. With you,” he added for clarification when he saw her raised eyebrows.

“You don’t want to go where you are wanted with me, either,” she countered.

Mycroft seemed genuinely mystified. “I beg your pardon?”

 _You really should_ , Greg thought, but stayed quiet.

Molly waved it away, “Nothing. Listen, it’s very sweet, it really is, you throwing money at this place, and it will all get used. Even the-” she waggled her hand in the direction of the kitchen and bit back a chuckle. “But,” she continued, and Greg could feel Myc hold his breath, “if you had spoken to me about your plans to contribute, I could have told you what to send the boys after, and maybe we wouldn’t have enough milk products to float a barge.”

“Ah.” Mycroft shifted uneasily. “I may have wanted to surprise you.”

Greg watched Molly interpret the words he wasn’t quite saying. “You surely hit that mark,” she said, “but why?”

Mycroft plucked the paper angel off the desk, love pinned in every fold, and presented it to her with a soft look.

 _It's you_ echoed in the gesture so plainly even Greg could hear it. 

**Author's Note:**

> This one takes place in between chapters 18 & 19 of _Happiness Shared_.  
> [Origami angels!](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/3669993/Christmas-craft.html)  
>  Psst: there are eight characters XD


End file.
